


Checkm8

by shinyhuman



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Minor Violence, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyhuman/pseuds/shinyhuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vriska and Rose meet in a dream bubble with plans for a caliginous date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkm8

_Rose ___

“I brought you a gift, Lalonde.” The moment she brandished that bottle of crimson liquid perilously close to your face, flashing her favorite false, toothy grin, you knew tonight was going to be fantastic. “Wasn’t that nice of me?” As she thrusts the bottle in your arms, her golden eyes study your face for a reaction, or a glimmer of a fault, which endangers the perfect composition of your facade. However, you wouldn’t dare grant her such a satisfaction. She sees none.

“How thoughtful.” Holding the wine as a bride would cling to her bouquet to quell her nerves, you invite the troll inside. Though already taller than you, her heels add another three or four inches to her height, simultaneously lengthening her legs and tightening her ass. She’s dressed to slaughter, thigh-highs meeting the black fabric of her dress just above the knee, her tangled mess of hair coiled in a swathe down her back, slightly over her eyes, covering her chest. She’s left the tangles just for you; a ribbon for the alcohol, a perfectly packaged passive-aggressive gift. How thoughtful, indeed. You finger a lock, catching on a rather knotted snarl, your lips close to her slightly tapered ear, “Your hair is positively lovely, darling.”

She flinches when you finish your stroke, breaking through the knot of hair violently. “Fuck, Lalonde!” Her eyes narrow, and she massages her head, apparently rethinking the implications of her hairstyle. 

A grin plays on the corner of your painted lips. She is learning your game. However, while she may be a fast learner, and - you consider the weight of the bottle pressing on your chest - a bit of a cheater, you are a well-seasoned player. An upbringing such as yours renders victory an inevitability. Though, you must admit, you admire her perseverance, her talent, her drive. She makes an exciting rival, if not a particularly challenging one.

“So where’s this amazing dinner? Or are you running late again?” Crossing her arms, she takes a seat at the table you’ve adorned with lace, candles, and Mom Lalonde’s finest china. The gesture is overwhelming, considering the china will probably be broken amidst the violent haste of clearing the table in preparation for another activity.  
“Jeez, Lalonde, couldn’t you find nicer plates?” She begins to play with her knife, sighing as she executes an overdramatic slump.

Ah, she noticed. She conceals her astonishment appropriately. “Well, darling, I looked, but unfortunately we’ve destroyed everything else.” You set a steaming pot of noodles in the center, accompanied by a smaller container of sauce. “And this amazing dinner was prepared right on time. I believe it is you -” a glance at the clock confirms the accusation “- who is late.”

“Oh, blah, blah. Sometimes the only difference between you and Fussy is that you’re as big of a slob as me. Just pour the fucking wine and let’s eat.” You raise your eyebrows and comply, a stream of scarlet filling her glass. She snorts when you fill your own with water. “You don’t like my gift?” Reaching across to swap them, she smirks. Bent at just the right angle, you see down her dress, your face reddening as she drains the water in three lengthy gulps, your eyes drawn down the length of her neck to the smooth roundness of her breasts, to the top of her muscular stomach. You cross your legs, attempting to rid your face of the blush before she sees. She licks her lips and you reach for the wine.

You have underestimated her. 

However, she will not emerge the victor. You take a sip of the wine, which is exactly to your taste. “My, my, Serket,” you bite your lip when you’re sure she’s looking, then supplement her cobalt blush with a wink, “this is exquisite.” She’d already begun to stuff her face and you’re moving to sit on the edge of the table, finger circling the rim of your glass.

“Oh, fuck. This isn’t fair!” 

You smirk, leaning in closer, “What’s not fair, Serket?” The neckline of your dress dips into a sharp V whose apex is the top of your ribcage. At this angle, at least one of your nipples is showing. Perfect. 

“How close you are.” She’s stopped eating, backing away from the table slightly, her eyes combing you over. You pry her fork from her hand and she recoils at your touch without realizing she’s doing it, melting into her chair as you lick excess sauce off of the utensil. “Fuck you,” she murmurs, eyes fixated on your tongue.

You resist the urge to beg for it. “Your move,” becomes the challenge, issued between largely exaggerated strokes of your tongue. For a moment Vriska seems to falter, gripping the edge of the chair too tightly as she stands to lean over you, her fists resting on the table on either side of you. She is close, yet you don’t touch: the spell remains unbroken; the challenge continues. Your eyes meet and you notice a glimmer in hers; though your close proximity is uncomfortable in its temptation, you wouldn’t dare touch her, as a Lalonde simply does not lose. Vriska knows you well: she has placed herself in control. 

“Checkmate,” she breathes, gloating her victory prematurely. Tendrils of her charcoal hair brush your collarbones, her carefully painted lips curl in a malicious smile inches from your own, and you stare into her golden eyes, releasing a single, short laugh. 

“Not quite.”

_Vriska ___

You are massaging Rose Lalonde’s throat with your teeth and it is fucking amazing. As you rip the fabric of her dress with your claws, drawing as much blood from her flesh as possible, you revel in her screams of ecstasy and pain and...satisfaction?

Shit.

How did you manage to lose again.

“I believe I emerge victorious once again, Serket?” Her fingers pull at the roots of your hair, tipping your lips up for a rough kiss. You suck at her tongue, biting down just hard enough to puncture. The pain tears a scream from her mouth, and she takes you in each of her fists and shoves you on the table, sliding most of the dishes onto the floor with a sweep of her arm. Blood glistens on her lips as she straddles you, her nails slowly carving cobalt lines between your breasts. 

You continue to assault her dress, at this point not much more than a few blood-speckled rags, before Rose pins you to the table, gripping your throat. She applies enough pressure to bruise, her fingertips sensitive to each twitch of a muscle. “You really are a sore winner, Lalonde,” you choke, letting go of her dress. It falls to the floor, her severely mangled chest now entirely exposed. 

She licks her lips, a mouth full of crimson. “On the contrary, I intend to elicit the opposite: when I’m through, you are going to be a very sore loser.” Dipping down to take your lips in hers, she cycles through biting, sucking, and nipping, your senses awash with the metallic tang of her alien blood. Your dress and bra discarded, she attends to your cobalt nipples, kneading one in mesmerized circles with her thumb and prodding the other maddeningly with her tongue. Though you attempt to repress any reaction, you fail utterly; a mix of strangled squeaks and low grunts escape your lips as you tremble, pulling weakly at her hair, eyes rolling as your bulge begins to emerge, straining against your underwear.

There is a method to the way she tightens her grip on your throat, loosening it only to place a kiss, always all teeth, under her fingertips, her mouth tracing its visible path down to your stomach and up again, sucking, biting, nipping, cerulean smeared on her cheeks and spotting the entire upper half of your body. Your blood’s sweeter than hers and you don’t care, fighting to break more of her skin, pecking at her lips with your whetted fangs. However, each attempt you make is countered with a sharp stinging on your thigh, or an insult delivered in a gush of hot breath. 

At this point, your bulge is fully emerged from its sheath. Its hooked tip curls around the edge of your panties, already stained a blueish hue, jerking feverishly with need. Rose traces another path downward, finally lingering at your hips, making a show of tearing your underwear off with her teeth. “Hey, I like those!” You scold, digging your nails into her scalp before she takes your bulge in her warm mouth and sets your senses ablaze.

She sucks while your tip travels deeper, grinding against her tongue and lightly scraping her teeth. Her hands massage everything not between her lips, working in a fast corkscrew motion, three fingers reserved for rubbing the ribbed inside of your nook. You have given up any reservation, screams ripping from your lips as your bulge fills her throat, wriggling violently in her grasp. You’re already threatening to cum and you’ve never despised her more when she adds a fourth finger, your eyes filling with flashes of white and static, your tongue buzzing. 

You finish, pailing into her mouth. The muscles in her throat compress as she drinks your fluid, the pressure on your newly sensitive member alone threatening a second orgasm.  
When she slides you out of her you’re both heaving with exhaustion, her forehead pressed against your stomach while your tentacle lies curled on your thigh, limp and throbbing. After a few minutes, your vision not quite recovered, you sit up and pull her into a kiss, as tender as one given to a matesprit. When neither of you tries to end it, you dare to take her tongue, suckling softly, her flavor sweetened by your fluid.

However, before the borderline-flushed contact continues any longer, you pull away. She leans close to you with a hazed glint in her eye and whispers, “At this point, I’d demand a second round, but given your current state, I don’t think you could manage it.”

“Fuck you, Lalonde.”

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

You’re still rolling your eyes when she places herself beneath you.

_Rose ___

You’re not sure if the glint in your eye is red or black when you meet hers. Vriska stares downward, her eyes widened, drinking in the newly mangled flesh of your exposed stomach. In the animal kingdom, this is a clear sign of surrender, a submissive gesture designed to instigate pity. Is such a display so unwarranted in troll culture? Or is she simply misinterpreting this as yet another passive-aggressively charged challenge? 

“Vriska.” Her name rolls gently from your tongue, your tone an impeccable balance of softness, restraint, and longing. Your victory has allowed you to wax red. However, from the way she flinches when you run your fingers affectionately through her swathe of hair, you can tell she has not shared this transformation. 

Or is, at least, still confused by yours.

“Vriska,” you repeat, coaxing her closer, her mess of loose black snarls enclosing your faces like a curtain, “Vriska.” Arching your back, you expose your neck. Perhaps expecting a trick, her fingers slowly wrap themselves around your throat, and she leans in to bite. “No,” you whisper gently, as one would address a child, “not like that.” Instead, you guide her hands to your waist, their pressure extraordinarily light. When you rise to meet her lips, she pulls away.

“This is a new low, Lalonde.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Even now you don’t get kismesissitude. You go too fucking far.” Still straddling you, she covers her face with both hands, simultaneously tugging at her hair, grinding her teeth.

“You think I’m faking it?”

A short bark of a laugh. “I think you’re making fun of me.”

“I’ve already won, why take my chances?”

“To gloat?”

“Please enlighten me, when have I ever gloated?”

Despite knowing of her animalistic nature, it still surprises you when she bares her teeth, a sharp growl ripping from her throat. She grips each of your wrists tightly enough to bruise, pinning them above your head as she leans over, roughly crushing your lips and then your tongue before her fangs search for purchase on every pore of your jaw. You inhale sharply, your eyelids fluttering from the contact.

You moan contentedly and she hisses, “Stop letting me, Lalonde!” Her nails break your skin, drawing tiny pools of red. Her voice cracks as her screaming climbs octaves, “Fight me!”

You widen your arms to your full wingspan, hers, conveniently tightly connected, follow. Her face falls forward, and you move your lips lightly against hers. “We don’t always have to fight,” your tongue traces her lip softly. After freeing your wrists, one hand smooths her hair, a thumb stroking her jaw, the other pulls her closer. While her golden eyes smoulder, her lips remain taut. Fingering a fang, you whisper, “How can I convince you, darling?”

“Here we go, tricking the idiot with one of your dumb ideas.” Affection saturates the question. How long has she harbored these feelings? The corner of her lip twitches. “Bluh. You never lose.” 

Balancing you on her thigh, she lifts your chin with two claws, sampling your lips with a faint peck. Barely feeling the contact, you lift your head for more. You catch her cheek instead when she turns, the intensity of her blush chilling her flesh. Ignoring your whine of protest, she turns to the rest of your body, convinced or resigned you can’t yet tell. The next few minutes are a mess of hushed sighs and curious hands, light pressure tracing your slight curves. When you’re ready you murmur, “Vriska.” Her hot breath wettens your collar as she hefts her bulge inside you. You cling tightly to her in surprise, feeling the muscles on her back flex under your fingers as she struggles to control the feverish wriggling of her bulge with one hand, its tip tracing your lips before plunging in.

You gasp, shocked that her girth feels significantly more massive between a different pair of lips. “Rose,” she purrs as she coaxes herself deeper, everything about her softened.  
Touching, licking, kissing, you both succumb to the pleasure of a leisurely rhythm, as though memorizing the body of an unfamiliar lover. Indeed, you had never focused on the texture of her alien skin, more tightly drawn around the bones and more silky with its lack of hair. Even her saliva possessed a more poignant taste, sweeter and more concentrated and syrupy than your own. You noted this as a recurring theme. 

“Vriska.” You murmur into her lips, a string of blue saliva still connecting you as she pulls away, eyeing you curiously. “Harder, please.” 

“About time,” is her response, before stretching over you, thrusting hard. You moan, a mixture of pain and pleasure, and she gets the idea and softens the next one, experimenting as you reward her with sighs and gasps, your fists clung around her neck. 

Though maddeningly smooth, her tentacle draws out waves of pleasure is it writhes inside you. Vriska experiences similar ecstasy with your alien genitalia, despite it not being ribbed, as your vagina is significantly tighter than a trolls’ nook. 

As she increases her speed once more, you choke, “Can you control it?”

Vriska gasps, almost out of breath. “Its movement? Yeah.” 

“Bend the tip.”

She bites her lip, thrusting again, and a second later you feel a satisfying twinge, her hook catching inside you. You moan loudly, bucking into her. Repeating the motions, you begin to develop a rhythm, perspiration gluing you together in a mess of clammy hands and ecstatic cries. As you both near climax, your bucking becomes more fervid and she grips your thighs, your hands tangled in her hair as her lips rest on a breast, suckling the nipple with growing ferocity. Small whines escalating to desperate screams, you reach your climax, Vriska’s bleary face dissolving in a spectrum of white, your senses numb with rapturous tingling. From far off you hear her own satisfied cry, she releases inside you. When you surface, there is a sudden weight on your body, and your fingers caress hair, skin, whatever you can reach of the girl collapsed on your chest. Her fingers find and entwine themselves with yours.

You chuckle weakly, “Vriska -”

She grumbles into your breast, “Shut up and don’t ruin this.”

Left with no choice but to comply, and being rather comfortable, you close your eyes to sleep. Vriska clambers over you and lies beside you, face tucked in the crook of your neck. Your lips are barely opened before she presses a finger to them and hisses, “Shh! What did I say?” This time, instead of listening, you kiss her forehead and whisper, “Good night, darling.”


End file.
